


Dose of reality

by Mermaid1331



Category: Homeland
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 09:33:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5534903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mermaid1331/pseuds/Mermaid1331
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I wasn't allowed a real life, or a real love."</p><p>Well, $@&/! that shit. It's Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dose of reality

**Author's Note:**

> For everyone who's been grieving since 5x12, and especially for the authors whose Homeland works have given me such enjoyment.
> 
> This is my first fanfic - feedback welcome.

The third time she starts vomiting, there’s nothing left in her stomach. Dry heaves rack her body as he kneels against the bed, one hand holding the plastic bucket, the other rubbing her back gently, in a way he hopes is comforting but honestly doesn’t have a fucking clue, none of his own experiences with vomiting having involved comforting bystanders.

When the heaves finally stop she falls back against the pillow, face flushed and sweaty. She looks at him and asks very softly, “Mama?”

Whining he could handle but this - it wrings his heart, a phrase he was equally clueless about until tonight. He is utterly unprepared for this. But at the moment he’s all she’s got. And now he has to say something back to her.

“She’s pretty sick, honey, just like you. She needs to rest. But she’ll be better soon. You’ll feel better soon, too, I promise.” She keeps her eyes on him, steady, trusting, and he smooths the damp hair back from her forehead.

“Pretty hot, huh?” She nods. “I’ll be right back.”

Carefully, because everything still has to be done carefully, he rises to his feet, thankful that at least he’s done with the crutches, the cane, all that shit. Small blessings. Well, big blessings, actually, but he’s not of a mind to acknowledge that at the moment, what with the sleep deprivation and the reek that lingers in the house even though he’s been trying really hard to keep up with the cleaning for the past 24 puke-filled hours.

The same instinct that prompted the back rubbing is telling him to go get a washcloth, soak it in some cool water, not too cold. Or is this a remnant of field training resurfacing? Whatever. He kneels back down beside her, places it on her cheek. She sighs. Water trails down her neck, soaking into her pajama top. He goes back and forth to the sink several more times and after the last one she gives him a small smile. He cannot believe it.

“Better?” She nods. “Good. Let’s get you in a fresh t-shirt.”

Of course there are none left in the drawer. Weren’t many to begin with - her summer clothes are in a box somewhere and right now he cannot face ripping open random boxes. He is flummoxed. Then, you could call it a stroke of genius - ha, get it? - but really it’s desperation and he’s looking under the bed and jackpot. Gives it a couple quick shakes - fortunately Carrie’s not here to see this particular maneuver - and she is in a fresh t-shirt. Freshish.

Back to the bathroom, fill the blue robot cup with the orange Pedialyte. She sips dutifully, then makes a face so utterly appalled that he has to look away quickly to stifle the laugh.

“I know it doesn’t taste so good. But it’ll make you feel better.”

The look he gets this time is not so trusting. He changes topics.

“How about a story?” She brightens. And points to - the dinosaur book. By now he can recite it word for word. Hell, he could do it backwards, turn it into a cipher, if he still did that sort of thing. Instead he smiles back at her. Picks up the book, stretches out beside her on the bed. She rests her head on his shoulder.

“Everyone in town knew Edwina. She was the dinosaur who played with the neighborhood kids…”

By the time he finishes she is deeply asleep. The flush has faded and when he touches her forehead it’s a lot cooler. He lets out a long breath that it feels like he’s been holding in for days.

A memory hits. “Not everyone is fit to be a parent.” Jesus, he had actually said that. Meant it, too. Somewhere the god of stomach flu is laughing his ass off. Her ass, more likely.

He switches off the lamp on the bedside table and, extra carefully, maneuvers off the bed, pleased that it barely shivers.

He walks to the kitchen, studiously ignoring the pile of dishes in the sink, on the counter. Gets a glass of water because god knows he can’t afford to get dehydrated on top of everything else. Looks down at the floor so he can keep ignoring the mess of dishes and sees the dog’s water bowl. Bone dry. Shit. Has he managed to kill the dog? The dog they just rescued because of course their lives are so together now that it’s a fabulous time to rescue a dog. Franny loves that dog. He does, too, though he won’t admit it.

He nudges enough dirty dishes away to get the water bowl under the faucet and then the dog is there, not dead, not even reproachful. Just thirsty. Drinks gratefully. He sinks down next to her, strokes the shaggy black fur, gets a very dribbly licking for his trouble.

Remember, he tells himself, remember to take the dog out later. He goes to check on Carrie.

She’s in the bathroom, door closed. He waits for the sound of retching but it’s just running water, a toothbrush whirring. The door opens and she gives him a weak smile.

“How you doing?”

“Better, I think,” she says. “A little shaky. But not so feverish.”

Awash in gratitude. Another phrase he’s learning to understand tonight.

He helps her back to bed - weird, to be the one doing the helping again. They lie down and he wraps an arm around her.

“How’s Franny?” she asks, the worry plain.

“Well, we had round three but I think that might be the last of it. Her fever’s down. I knocked her out good with some Edwina.”

She laughs softly. “Jesus, what we’ve put you through.” Then she asks, “Is this more, um, real than you were bargaining for?”

“Are you kidding? I thought I knew bodily fluids but I’m learning all kinds of stuff.”

He grins at her and only then realizes she is serious.

“Carrie,” he says. “You just - you have no idea how much I -” The words are failing him. They still do, sometimes.

So he leans in and she says quickly, “You should absolutely not -” and he cuts her off, kisses her slow and deep and tender. When they finally break, she shakes her head at him, but she’s smiling, eyes bright.

He pulls back the covers for her and they curl together. He’s so ready for sleep. His eyes close, he feels her warmth, her heartbeat steady. He’s dropping off. And then… the dog.

He would groan, he really wants to groan, but she’s still at the stage where she’ll assume the worst, flash right back to the hospital. So he doesn’t even sigh, just gently disentangles himself. She stirs.

“Gotta take the dog out.”

Outside, it’s freezing, of course, but the dog appreciates the good thing she’s got going now and pees at lightning speed. Back inside, lock the doors, lights out.

The bed is so warm, feels so good, he considers whether it was almost worth having had to get up. Decides he’s just delirious. Enough real life for one day. He embraces her and sleeps.


End file.
